Loveyou Everybody
by sexyvanillatiger
Summary: It is as close to him as he can get. As close to being him, though it's never how it should be. Being one with him and being him are two vastly different worlds. Mondego/Dantes; Slash.


It is as close to him as he can get. As close to being him, though it's never how it should be. Being one with him and being him are two vastly different worlds; apples to oranges, as the wisers would say. But somehow, these capricious and hardly-planned meetings seem enough to drag his life on peacefully, as it quells every murderous and divine urge that tugs at his chest when he sees the smile on Edmond's face.

Every. Damned. Day.

"C'est quelque chose sur ton esprit?"

After a long and calculated silence, Fernand opens his eyes and stares down at Edmond. "Non." And before his comrade can open his mouth again - well, in actuality he does open his mouth. Though the moment those pretty lips are parted, Fernand leans in and slips his tongue between them, therein effectively perorating whatever kind and romantic words Edmond could've spoken. Fernand can't bear to hear him speak like that, not when it's his fault that his friend is saying such things. Can't have copulation without love, can't have love without romance. Edmond is such a marvel Frenchman. A romantic, a sailor and a bachelor with two lovers. His bases are covered. Fernand can't understand what, about this, makes Edmond so happy, but there's something in the mixture that does.

And so, these vaguely monthly visits (which, as the months blend together, are fast becoming weekly) are spent trying to reach deep enough into Dantès to find what possesses him to see the worst of his situations as docile and, in the oddest of cases, pleasurable. He'd never seen Edmond unhappy until the captain got sick, while they're in the middle of the sea with no land in sight.

Fernand realizes that he's becoming distracted and obviously distances when Edmond asks him again if there is anything on his mind. He responds with another No, and tries to resume. With Edmond having none of that, he turns and leans against the wall adjacent to them and waits for Edmond to continue.

"Es-tu préoccupé par le capitaine?"

"Non, Edmond." His voice is stern and he has half a mind to tell Edmond to drop it or he's leaving, though something tells him that he would be able to make the best of that situation, as well. Probably would go jerk off to thoughts of Mercédès. A shiver runs through Fernand at the thought of her. If he could get his hands on her...if once, just once and only once would be enough, his seduction would work and he could taste her for just one night and one night only, that would be enough. He wouldn't have to settle for Edmond every month (week). Or that's what he tells himself. It helps him to sleep at night.

Then why aren't you paying attention to me. The words float through his ears and he looks back over at Edmond. He shrugs nonchalantly and assures his friend that he is, indeed, paying attention, though ironically enough, he's too busy with his thinking to look Edmond in the eyes as he says it. The more naive of the two doesn't notice (and if he does, he lets it pass) as he steps forward, slipping his arms around Fernand's neck and pulling them into a deep embrace, encore. They fumble with footwork, Fernand the more graceful of the pair, and so he leads his raven-haired compadre over to the bed, where he lays him down and untucks his own shirt to pull it off. It floats to the floor, elegantly dancing on the air as it flutters down, and before Edmond can point out how light it is against the blackness of the cabin, their lips have feverishly met once more. Fernand's hunger for the oneness is growing and he can't stop his hands from ravaging their way down Edmond's body, taking clothes and boots with them. A shirt is missing, then one pair of trousers, then both of their trousers, and Fernand licks his lips when they're finally undressed.

"Tu es presque aussi beau qu'elle." The words are muttered beneath his breath, too low for Edmond to even realize that something had been said. He's too busy with his head tipped back and his chest rising and falling with air that he'll never catch enough of. Not tonight, anyways. Fernand can tell he'll be seeing to that when the slightest kisses trailing down his brunette's neck sweep away what little breath he'd had a grasp on. The ego boost is amazing, especially while he refuses to realize that the ironic timing of a butterfly in a storm could do the exact same thing. His hands trail further down until they're tracing the rounded edges of Edmond's hipbones, and Fernand is almost disgusted to find that he's turned on by such curves. He tries to picture Mercédès, though he's easily distracted from her image as Edmond takes le roux's face in his hands and their eyes meet.

"J'aime tes yeux." Fernand watches Edmond's lips move as he says it, and the corners of his own mouth twitch in a slight smirk.

"J'adore tes lèvres." And so, with the same ferocity as precedented, he leans in and captures them, claiming them as his own. He tries to cop a feel from his lover, though misses and his hand rests on Edmond's stomach when his brunette twists his hips and seems to glare up at him.

Edmond says something about being in Danglars' cabin, and how they may not be alone for very long. Fernand shuts him up by telling him that Danglars is staying in the captains' quarters for the night, to keep an eye on the captain, of course. Oh, and he also uses the effective method of biting Edmond's tongue for him.

"Nous n'avon pas nulle part," he murmurs into the open-mouthed kiss, nipping further at the writhing muscle in the grasp of his pearly whites. He finally grabs hold of Edmond's arousal, evoking a pleasured groan as his harsh touches soothe all too quickly, dwindling away into nothing more than a light tease. He brushes his fingers over the head and then the touch disappears completely, returning to the bed beside Edmond's head so that Fernand can hold up his weight above the smaller of the two men. He can't help the heated whisper that's hoarsely forced out against Edmond's ear. "Je veux te baiser."

"Je veux t'embrasser." A dix pour dix on the romantic scale after Fernand's crude...well, it isn't a request. More like a statement. Because Fernand doesn't just want to fuck him. He's going to fuck him.

"Ouvri tes jambes." Edmond slowly obeys him, his knees rising so that Fernand can see his rosy entrance. He takes two of his own fingers, sucking them into his mouth only to have them pulled away. Edmond leans up and takes them slowly between his own lips, eyes fixed on le roux as he sucks hard on them, as though augur the pleasure that Fernand knows all too well.

"Tu n'as pas besoin de..." His words trail off as Edmond pulls his head away from the fingers, leaving only a fine twine of saliva between his lips and his own digits. Eyes still fixed on Edmond's intoxicating gaze, Fernand knowingly lower them to his lover's entrance and pressed one in. He almost feels ashamed for the victorious ambiance he knows he's giving off when he sees that blush intensify, those eyelashes lower and that gorgeous jawline tip back to reveal a pale and exposed neck, and he curses himself for it. He's in control, and as much as he tells himself he is, he can't very well force himself to feel it. So he redirects his attention to the heat and tightness around just his one finger. Edmond is the freshest virgin he's ever felt, he tells himself every time, when he knows damn well that they've been seeing each other ever since they were assigned to the same vessel.

Edmond's speaking now, and his own mind is only processing half of the words. Just, please, not, and long don't form a sentence enough for Fernand to interpret, so he adds the second finger and hopes it's what Edmond was asking for. He confirms this when his brunette thrusts down upon him, asking, no, begging for more. "Quelle que soit tu voudrais," he murmurs into Edmond's ear, evoking a shiver and, he quickly realizes, a premature orgasm. They both look down, then back up at each other and Edmond quickly jerks his gaze away.

"D-désolé," he murmurs under his breath, moving to close his legs. Fernand doesn't allow him to, slipping his fingers from Edmond's orifice and grabbing his taut thighs and pressing them right back to the bed. The more Edmond struggles, the more justified his actions feel, and he slowly lowers his head to press sweet kisses to his companion's open neck. He doesn't linger for long, his lust and esurience teasing him with the rest of Edmond's corps parfait. He trails his lips down to Edmond's collarbone, though the delicate and rawness makes him slightly uneasy and he continues. His trail guides him down to one dusty pink nipple, standing at attention beneath Fernand's warm breath. His tongue flicks out, drawing a soft gasp from parted lips, swollen from the abuse of kissing and biting. Fernand nips at the bud to keep Edmond on his toes before moving to its twin, giving it a rather kinder treatment. Finally, between their smoldering bodies, he can feel Edmond's blood coursing south once more. Knowing that he's on the right track, he continues.

"Est-ce que tu voudrais à la fin maintenant? Tu peux-"

Fernand, sick of hearing Edmond's light and uneasy voice, reaches up and claps a hand over his mouth as he busies himself with glissading his tongue over the dips and curves of the trim stomach beneath him. He can feel the muscles shifting beneath him, echoing in pleasure as he paves his way closer and closer to the pinnacle of Edmond's lust. As he draws nearer to his lover's sex, his want and anxiety compel him to rush and he all too quickly leans down and takes Edmond, half-hard, in his mouth. The brunette arches and writhes, as though trying to escape from the pleasure whilst trying to remain as close to it as possible at the same time. Not particularly keen on choking, Fernand releases one of Edmond's thighs and uses his hand to pin one hip (and just as effectively, the other as well) to the bed. He lowers his head and takes more of him in, sucking long and hard until he can feel the flesh beneath his lips, on his tongue, he can feel it hardening. The blood pumping. The fluids dripping from the slit as his tongue ventures its way back up to the head.

"Es-tu prêt?"

"Oui."

Asking no further questions, Fernand spits into his hand and lubricates himself as best he can with all the naturals. He aligns himself with Edmond's entrance and, not bothering to look up into those romantic's eyes for confirmation (knowing that they're close, anyways), he pushes himself in until he buried to the hilt. He can feel Edmond tensing down around him, and it's probably in pain, though he can't bring himself to register that much; he has his own problems to worry about. For instance, as he tries to take a breath, it feels like he's choking on it and he quickly lets go, left breathless and pathetically panting. This pleasure...being inside of Edmond is still like nothing he's ever imagined, even though he's imagined it a million times in his bunk when the rest of the boys are just too pissed drunk or busy gambling amongst themselves. He's still heaven and hell, that one uniting force between them that Fernand takes advantage of every chance he gets. No thoughts of Mercédès can save him now as he plunges deep into his best friend, tearing him from the inside out as he will until he finds that one bit of happiness that Edmond never fails to keep hold of for himself. That or la petite mort. Whichever comes first.

As per usual, it's his orgasm that reminds him that he's still Fernand, and Edmond is still lying beneath him, moaning and twitching and rutting against him as he leaves claw marks on Fernand's back. He fights it, of course, fights the promise of this feverous, hellish paradise. Tightens the muscles in his loins more than he thought he was capable of, though there's nothing that can stop him, and so he begins to stroke Edmond in time to his thrusts to make sure that at least he isn't the first to go.

"Ah! Mon Dieu, mon Dieu," Edmond begins to chant as soon as Fernand's coarse fingers come in contact with his sensitive flesh. He clenches down around la roux, blunt fingernails digging deeper crescents into the pale flesh of Fernand's back. "Je vais à l'orgasme, Fernand," he leans up and murmurs into his lover's ear, becoming true to his word not three seconds later.

The tightness all around him, choking it from him, really, as Edmond finishes is amazing. And, just as he does every time before, Fernand thinks that maybe this is that happiness Edmond has long kept secret from him, despite its being in plain sight. Maybe this is the heaven he lives in daily. Though when his orgasm dies down, and he collapses to the bed beside Edmond, he finds himself (once again) sorely disappointed. That fleeting happiness has retreated back into the being from whence it came. He glances over at his brunette, still panting and staring at the ceiling of Danglars' cabin. Fernand stretches and rises silently to rest his weight upon his elbows. He looks down at Edmond once more, who has turned to look at him with wide eyes. Fernand sits up completely, very alert. He looks around before realizing that Edmond is still looking at him. He frowns, looking down at himself. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"

And with a romantic smile, the one that Fernand apprehends at the close of each night they share the same bed; the one that makes him regret every action he'd taken the entire night, Emond replies, "Ce n'est rien. C'est seulement mon coeur."


End file.
